


Busted Knuckles

by unamusementpark



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, bitch i dont fucking know, davekat - Freeform, it sucks why would you want to read this horseshit anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-08-28 21:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16731021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unamusementpark/pseuds/unamusementpark
Summary: Dave was a part of an illegal fighting ring, and once he's taken out of it, he latches onto the only thing that gives him comfort: Karkat. (TW for mentions of physical abuse, mental/emotional abuse, sexual abuse, violence, PTSD, flashbacks, drinking... yeah.) (It’s tagged with Rape/Noncon because of the sexual abuse by the way.)





	Busted Knuckles

The day everything fell apart, he was drunk. It was supposed to keep him strong while he fought against broken ribs from his last fight, supposed to make the world easier to understand by taking the sharp edges and making them blurry, but all it did was make him feel sick and unsteady. He knew he was going to lose the fight even before he stepped into the makeshift ring, even before the harshness of the lights burned his sensitive eyes and make them stream. From the moment he'd had that bottle of tequila pressed to his lips with a voice that coerced him in a facade of gentleness, he'd known he was going to lose, and he'd known things would go badly for him because of that.

The fight took place in the back of a warehouse, a factory setting that was loud and disorienting and would drown out the sound of the screams when he had to try and kick another helpless kid's ass. The workers kept their eyes down as he passed them, even though he tried to make eye contact with all of them. He maybe even said something, but a quick pop to the jaw set him straight and silent again. He stared at what they were manufacturing. He couldn't tell what it was. Maybe he could've been able to tell sober, but right now, with the throbbing in his side and the smell of sawdust suffocating him and the arm that kept a grip too tight on his arm and the dizziness that clouded his mind, it was hopeless.

His shoes grated on the metal floor. He couldn't focus on any one thing, so he focused on nothing. His head lolled on his neck as he stared idly about the factory, at the golden light that streamed through the dusty windows onto the people working inside. He didn't even notice the door labeled AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY until he almost run into it, stumbling on his feet. Vomit threatened to rise up in his throat. He only had the piece of mind to force it down because of the grip on his arm.

His sunglasses were taken off his face, and the contrast of reality increased tenfold. He did puke, then. The smell of it made tears threaten in his eyes. The burning acid reflux in his throat made him gag, but he was ripped away from the splattering of vomit on the ground and made to face his alleged caretaker. He was the one who patched him up, looked after him, and kept him from killing himself between fights. Dave resisted the urge to shove him away, but only barely. He hated being this drunk. It made him careless. If he wasn't careful, he'd have a lot more than a broken rib to deal with tomorrow, on top of whatever injuries he'd get when this kid kicked his ass.

The ring was a small circle of barbed wire, five yards in diameter, made of precariously stacked crates covered in plastic. After the fight, the plastic would be taken off, and there would be no blood on the crates. Those would be shipped off later to help get rid of the evidence. There was a smattering of sawdust scattered around the inside of it, perfect for replacing after the fight when he bled on that, too. All of it was perfectly manufactured to have no trace. He'd seen this a million times, it felt like.

The kid was new to this. His eyes were wide, pleading, tear-filled. This was his first fight. Dave could tell by the lack of scars, the lack of guard. This match wasn't for Dave, and that was why his caretaker had gotten him drunk rather than give him expensive pain medication. Dave's only job here was to let this kid beat the shit out of him, build up his confidence and guilt. The confidence would help him with tougher fights in the future. The guilt would keep him wrapped around his caretaker's finger. Even as he sat upon the bottom of the pyramid, he could see how it worked. Poor kid.

The fight was a blur. He got a few hits in--just enough to get him to fight back so they weren't both punished--and then it was game over. The ferocity with which this kid came at him was borne from desperation, and few things were more powerful when it came to fueling aggressiveness. His lip was bloodied, his head scratched, his ribs kicked as he fell to the floor. Again. And again. And again. He struggled at first, fought against the agony that wracked his entire body, even tore out a good chunk of his foot, but it was useless. He fell limp. Blood spilled from his lip and onto the sawdust. The world started to fade in and out of existence with the rhythm of the kid's attacks, pain and oblivion taking turns to dance with him, until the kicking stopped, and his eyes fell shut.

He woke up in a hospital, a mask pressed over his mouth. Two people spoke next to the bed, their tones hushed and worried. He was so, so tired. He tried to lift his hand and take off the mask, but it was too much effort. He was so tired. He didn't even care where he was or how he'd gotten there. All he wanted was to sleep. And sleep he did, in and out for nearly three days, processing nothing but the sterile exhaustion that overcame him each time he woke up.

Finally, he stayed awake long enough to talk to a woman named Redglare. It was an ironic name, thanks to the milky blindness in her eyes. He actually giggled when she said what her name was, and an impish smile crossed her own face. She was put together, sharp like a knife in skin, her head cocked a little as though she were going to pounce upon every word he said.

"I know you're confused, Dave," she said. Her voice was nasally. He liked listening to her talk. "The only reason you're not having a panic attack right now is because the hospital has you full of drugs. It's for the best. Hyperventilating could kill you right now."

"You look like a lawyer," he said. He wasn't wearing the mask over his mouth anymore. His voice calm out slow and syrupy, words sticking to the roof of his mouth until they rolled clumsily off his tongue. "Are you gonna send me to jail?"

She let out a barking laugh. "That's because I am a lawyer, but I'd never even dream of sending you behind bars. You're innocent. Dirk 'Bro' Strider-" he flinched at the name- "is the one going to jail. I might even be able to get him a death sentence." She looked gleeful at the very thought. "The only reason I'm talking to you right now is because I just wanted some facts for my case. Do you think you can answer some questions for me, Dave?"

For the first time, Dave noticed a police officer standing behind her, arms crossed. He waved at the officer, who waved back. "I'm tired. Can I go back to sleep after I answer your questions?"

He didn't remember what she asked. He remembered staring blankly up at the TV, answering questions that seemed to drift slowly away from him the longer he spoke, cobwebs in the wind of a newly-opened garage, rambling on and on, telling her stories that had nothing to do with anything...

It was two weeks until he actually became aware of his situation. It was slow going. His loopy smile on his face as he stared at things that didn't actually matter on the TV slowly faded, the hospital food actually had a taste in his mouth, and he realized he was completely, totally fucked. He tried to keep himself calm. It wasn't a big deal! It was fine! It was just that, at sixteen years old, he had been thrust out of his only way of life. It was only that he had three years to prepare for being an adult--two and a half, to be more precise--and he had no idea what he was supposed to do. At least he'd been comfortable with Bro. At least he'd known what he was doing. What was he going to do now? Fuck, fuck, Bro was going to kill him. He was going to find him the way he'd always said he would, and he would kill him. His ribs started to shriek as he lost control of his breath. His eyes burned with tears from behind shades he'd only _just_ realized he was wearing. The monitor next to him started to beep faster and faster. What the fuck was he gonna do! What the fuck was he gonna do! A nurse came in, looking hurried. He tried to push her away, but she slipped a mask over his face with expert accuracy. What the fuck! What the-!

The same thing happened each time. It was nearly a month later that he was allowed to come off his heavy medication, or else he'd crack his ribs again when he sobbed and hyperventilated. By that time, his stay in the hospital was over, and he had to move into the house of the people who were adopting him.

"You're very lucky," his social worker had told him. "Most kids like you have to go into the foster care system, but you'll be integrated directly into a permanent family. You probably don't remember your conversations you've had with them, but if they're enamored enough with you to take you in immediately..." He'd spread his hands out and given what he evidently thought to be a winning smile. "Good for you!"

Good for you. He had no clothes, no possessions safe for his prescription sunglasses, and no hope. But good for him. Good luck fucking figuring out what the hell you're supposed to do, kid. Good luck trying to riddle out what the hell this guy wants from you so you don't get your ass beaten every day. Good for fucking you.

There was only one person waiting for him outside the hospital. He looked like some of the patrons Dave had had to deal with in some of the bigger establishments, the ones where people came to watch fights in person rather than through a camera that streamed to the dark web. Specifically, he looked like one of the guys who'd paid Bro to watch him shower afterwards. He looked like one of the guys who'd be sitting on the bathroom floor, entranced by him, whispering that it was okay if he wanted to cry. Dave never did. It was one thing when it was just cameras in the shower, a single impartial eye that watched and judged silently, but it was another for him to see him in person.

"Dave?" asked the man. Oh, he was spacing out again.

He looked down at the travel-beaten sidewalk and said, "What."

The man seemed undeterred by his tone. "I'm Silas Vantas. I'm happy you're coming to live with us."

 _It's not like a had a choice,_ he thought bitterly. He said nothing.

He opened the passenger seat to his car, which was an ancient Ford truck that looked like it could collapse at any moment. Dutifully, Dave got in. It was warm in here, thanks to the weak October sun shining through the windshield. The seat was too stiff. It stank of smoke in here, not the kind from a cigarette, but the kind that got into your lungs in a house fire and made you choke with the soot it carried. When Silas entered the driver seat, he stared pointedly out the window. The car started, the hospital rolled away out of view, and Dave kissed the only thing he knew goodbye.

The house was terrible. As soon as he stepped out of the car, he knew it. He hated the smell of the garage: like cleaning agents and bleach, the smell that came after he had a severe wound and the blood in the bathroom had to be cleaned up. He hated the stupid freezer that held ice cream and could hold his corpse if he crossed too many lines. He hated that glamorized trike with the giant basket on the back two wheels. The rush of warm air, contrasting the fall chill, as he entered the house seemed to be covering a secret. He could get pushed down the stairs. He could be killed by any one of the implements in the kitchen.

"Karkat and Kankri are still at school," explained Silas as he shuffled something around in the fridge. Dave scooted his chair away from him. He produced a tupperware full of... something. "We decided that having you go on a Friday was probably a bad idea, so your first day will be on Monday. I know you're supposed to be a junior, but you're gonna be starting as a freshman, because you really don't have any high school experience."

"What are those?" he asked. As much as he hated Silas, the fact still remained that he was the one controlling his life now. He might as well know what was happening.

"Oh. Those are different years in high school. Freshman is first, sophomore is second, junior is third, senior is fourth. Kankri's a senior and Karkat's a junior." He dumped the thing from the tupperware onto a plate. It looked like beige goo with chunks in it. He stuck it in the microwave, set it for a minute and a half, and turned to face Dave. He smiled. "Don't worry. I don't know if you remember, but Karkat's the one who showed you the pictures of our cat, Bastard. That's the cat's name, by the way. It was _supposed_ to be Lobster, but Karkat called him Bastard so much that he refuses to answer to anything else. He refuses to answer even to that, most days." The timer beeped after a few moments, and Silas produced the still-disgusting sludge from the microwave, and he placed it in front of Dave along with a fork. "I'm not the best cook, but it's mostly edible."

Mostly edible was an understatement. Even smelling it made his stomach growl, and he was suddenly aware that his last meal had been yesterday. He picked up the fork and practically inhaled it. He wasn't actually sure what it was, but it had green beans and was creamy and tasted absolutely delicious. If he could've eaten the entirety of his plate, he would've. As it was, he ate until he felt like he would die if he took another bite, then sighed and pushed it away. At least he'd have food for later. That was always important.

Silas raised his brows, but took the plate without another word. He dumped the rest of it into the trash despite Dave's protests ("You can't microwave food multiple times," he chided him) and took him upstairs, where his bedroom was. It was simple: two beds, two dressers, a closet, and a cat lying in a spot of sunlight that shone in through the window onto one of the beds. He was dark and fat, and he looked so, so soft. He opened one lazy green eye to peer at him as he sat next to him on the bed then closed it. When Dave put a tentative hand on his back, he didn't move. He was even softer than Dave thought he would be.

"This is your room. You'll be sharing it with Karkat. Tomorrow, we'll go get you some clothes, okay? Do you want some old stuff to wear as pajamas tonight?" Silas asked.

"No," said Dave, and that was that.

Time passed. Silas showed him the layout of the house, assured him that he could get food from the kitchen whenever he liked, and helped him set up a phone he could have all to himself. Afternoon waned into evening. Dave made himself an Instagram, a Twitter, a Pinterest, and a Tumblr. He found that, despite the meme content, he liked Pinterest the most. The photos were calming. Looking at landscapes and pictures of leaves in sunlight was nice. It was a part of the world he'd never see if not for the photographs taken of them; it was a glimpse through a window at a reality that wasn't his. He wondered if he'd get the chance to take some photos now.

Downstairs, there was the sound of a door opening and closing. "We're home!" called a voice that echoed through every bit of the house. Bastard jumped up from his perch on the pillow and torpedoed away, leaving Dave alone in his room. He didn't bother going to see what Karkat and Kankri looked like. They could probably both kick his ass, and they probably both looked like their dad, and that was all he needed to know. Besides, it wasn't like he wouldn't see them.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. A sigh. The light in the room was flicked on, and Dave heard someone screech, " _Jesus shit!_ " in surprise. He looked idly up from his phone. He was tall, much taller than Dave's whole five feet, and he looked like he could easily bench press him if he so desired. He did look like his dad: same messy hair, same walnut skin, same facial features. He looked at Dave like he was crazy. "What the fuck? Why were you just sitting here in the dark?"

Dave shrugged. "I was afraid that if I got up to go turn on the light, the cat would leave." He liked Bastard. He hoped he'd come back.

"He's too lazy to do that. Once he's down, he's fucking down, unless he's about to get food. He's the laziest piece of shit ever, oh my god. I hate it." Karkat slung a school bag off his shoulder and tossed it into the corner. He collapsed onto his bed, looked up at the ceiling, and paused for a long moment heavy with deliberation. Then he said and said, "I actually hate how goddamn long it takes Kankri to get out of school. Like, first he has Debate, which is fine, whatever, I have Writer's Club, but then he fucking spends thirty fucking minutes sucking the life out of the face of his boyfriend! He acts like I don't know what he's doing, but like, holy shit, do you think I have an IQ of twenty? Do you think I'm an imbecile, just waiting with baited goddamn breath for you to decide when you want to leave? Like, come _on!_ "

Karkat didn't stop complaining. He complained about Kankri, then about math, then about Bastard getting hair on his sheets, then about how much he complained. Dave listened in silence as he kept scrolling through Pinterest. It was strangely comforting, actually. It gave him a sense of what he could expect (and honestly, it didn't sound bad in the slightest) and didn't put any pressure on him to reply. He'd found that everyone wanted him to talk too much. It went against everything Bro had taught him: don't talk, don't get noticed, don't bother me with your fucking problems, kid. Going against that was terrifying. When was he supposed to know when to stop?

Karkat showered, he went and ate dinner (which he made Dave go down and sit at, even if he was still full), he changed into his pajamas. Dave watched him do it all, curious as to why he looked so relaxed here, trying to figure out how to mimic him. He read until 10:00, then he went to bed, Dave trailing after him like a dog.

"Good night, Dave," he said, flicking off the light, and so ended Dave's first night with the Vantases.

**Author's Note:**

> Dave Is Pissy: The Musical!


End file.
